


What is Expected

by CaptainOdd



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 18:04:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2631122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainOdd/pseuds/CaptainOdd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young tribute reflects on the true meaning of legacy, and the pressure of competing in the world's deadliest game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What is Expected

**Author's Note:**

> This is the very first fanfiction I ever wrote and published...so yea, it pretty much sucks. I wrote it 2, maybe 3 years ago? I'll be posting an edited version of it in a few days. but here it is, in all it's horrid glory.

When I was a child, my father always told me I was destined for greatness. I would go into the Games. I would fight. I would win. There was no choice: it was expected of me to volunteer. It was expected of me to hold the family's reputation. He was, perhaps, the most brutal tribute when he entered the Games. He found an axe, and used to the slaughter the tributes in their sleep. He didn't even wait until it was down to the final eight to turn on his alliance-the Careers. The fiercest opponents, the tributes to beat. Get in with them, and you're safe for at least a few days. Oppose them, and pray to your God that they don't find you in whatever hole you have crawled into to die.

No, he waited until the second night when he was on watch, then fashioned nets from the jungle vines surrounding him. Just before dawn, when the sky is darkest, he threw the net over the other Careers. He tightened the nets, securing them through the mess of tress. One boy who had been quietly lying awake had managed to scurry out of the way before he had dropped the nets. My father chased after him, catching up in no time. He strangled the boy, looking almost gleeful as the boy sputtered and spat as his life ended, his breath caught in his throat. That was the first cannon. He turned back to the others, dragged them out one by one and chopped them to pieces. There was no method, no pattern other than the swift fall of his axe, the pain filled screams of anguish, the panicked whimpers and yells of the trapped, and the loud booming of cannons. Cannons fired off, four bellowing booms, one after the other, until only his district partner was left. She looks at him with pure fear, pure terror. The worst part is, you can see that she isn't even going to fight, the look of utter defeat has replaced the cold defiance and arrogance from only hours before. That's when the footage of the reruns cut to another tribute being mauled by mutts. Her death didn't go over well with the Capitol's audience, they thought that it was too quick, too boring . He tells me he was being merciful. Knowing him, it was anything but.  
It was under my father's influence that I grew up. Studying arenas, watching for the strengths and weaknesses of particular districts. One is strong, but dim-witted. If you have any patience, they're an easy kill. Two is ruthless, but they are easily distracted if you anger them. He drilled me, he made me memorize the victors, he made sure I was the expert to ask. I was expected to be raised a killer, a fighter. It was expected of me to be his prodigy.

But now, as I kneel here in the dirt, surrounded by blood and listening to the last breathes of two of my fellow tributes, I look down at my hands, coated in blood, and can't help but choke out sobs. I wasn't prepared for this. No amount of training or words of encouragement could even begin to prepare me for this Hell. No, this was disgusting. I can only hear what Father would say to me if he was here, in the arena with me.

"You are weak minded." I heard him after I failed the edible plants test in the training center. The disgust in his voice, they disappointment in his eyes. At home, my cheek would have stung and turned red.

"You are weak bodied." As I fell from the ropes that criss-crossed the Training Center's ceiling, their overlapping layers taunting me. At home, my stomach would growl for a week, my throat would be dry as a bone, waiting for him to feel mercy.

"You are weak." My neck would bare bruises and ache for days. My head would spin, and I would thank God that he wanted me alive so I could go into the Games. "Preserve his legacy."

In my interview, I was supposed to be cocky. Arrogant and confident, I was supposed to show off to the Capitol. But Ceaser made me feel safe, and within a minute, my exterior fell. I looked weak, slumped over in the chair, tears slipping down my cheeks. I told him how I trained for this, but I was so scared. I was not smart, I was not fast, I was not special. When the buzzer rang, he hugged me and held my hand in the air. He spun me around, and I almost glided off the stage.

But as I kneel here, I can feel soft soil under my skin. I dig my fingers into the earth, and I close my eyes. The birds are singing, somewhere in the distance. There is a gentle breeze. I open my eyes, and see a small ladybug climbing on a blade of grass. I smile.

The ghost of my smile is still imprinted on my face after the District 6 girl pulls her hatchet out of my skull.


End file.
